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“An amulet,” Theo told him. “From ancient Babylon, I believe.”

Jack knew exactly what Theo was referring to—a bit of unpolished ruby carved into a seal. It had been one of the pieces Jack had been particularly interested in examining before the fiasco of the robbery had taken his opportunity. “My uncle must have been grateful for its return.”

“He was,” the Princept said. “Morgan himself recommended the boy’s immediate initiation.”

It was all too convenient and more than a little suspect, considering that Jack had never heard of Barclay’s interest in the Order before this.

“Did he?” Jack said, considering Barclay anew.

Theo gave him a wobbly, unsettled smile. “Your uncle has been most gracious, but I was simply happy to be of service. He’s quite well known as a collector in many art circles. Simply speaking with him about his holdings was an honor.”

“I’m sure it was,” Jack said dryly.

His uncle collected antiquities, rare art from the ancient world, including an array of pieces that were related to the occult sciences. Tablets and seals, amulets and figures carved with runelike markings. An entire portion of the collection had gone missing some months before, but there hadn’t been any sign or clue since. Strange that Barclay, who was eminently forgettable, should be the one to return an item when any number of private investigators had been unable to do the same.

“Morgan was quite impressed with the extent of Barclay’s knowledge and expertise when it came to certain pieces in the collection,” the Princept said, turning to Theo. “It seems your art degrees weren’t the frivolous waste that many of us originally believed them to be.”

It was something closer to anger that flushed Theo’s cheeks this time. “It seems not,” he said evenly.

“Your family must be quite proud,” Jack said.

“I’m sure yours feels the same after your resounding triumph at the gala,” Theo replied, though his tone did not match his words. “I was there, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Jack drawled. “I had the pleasure of directing your lovely bride in her tableau, after all. She’s turned out to be quite the beauty, hasn’t she? Quite the hellion, too, from what I hear. She’ll need a firm hand to rein her in. Are you sure you’re up for such a job?”

Barclay’s jaw had gone tight. “Unlike some, I’m not so insecure as to feel the need to treat my beloved like a broodmare.”

Jack’s fists clenched at the not-so-veiled insult, but the High Princept cleared his throat before he could so much as respond. “Yes, well. We have people waiting for us, Jack. I was going to introduce young Barclay here to some of our other members.”

“Of course,” Jack said, bowing his head slightly but keeping his eyes pinned to Theo Barclay.

It was no accident that the collection of ancient Ottoman art that his uncle had intended to display at the Metropolitan was stolen a few weeks before Khafre Hall was destroyed, Jack was sure of it. Just as he was certain that Theo Barclay had not found this piece from his uncle’s collection by pure chance.

“Congratulations on your good fortune, Barclay.” Jack extended his hand. “I’m sure you’ll make a fine addition to our membership.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Theo took it, and they shook like gentlemen. But Jack held his grip for a heartbeat longer than necessary, relishing the way Theo’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Barclay was up to something—that much was certain. Jack had only to discover how he could best use that knowledge to his advantage.

TIME HELD ITS BREATH

1952—San Francisco

Harte stumbled under the weight of Sam’s body. His brother was heavier than he looked, and as Sammie fell into him, Harte was barely able to break his fall. They both ended up on the cold metal floor of the vault. The next thing he knew, the vault door was being slammed closed, and Esta was standing over them with a look of quiet horror in her eyes.

“Sam?” Harte tried to maneuver to see if his brother was conscious. He could already feel blood soaking into his own clothing, but he refused to acknowledge the truth of it.

Sammie didn’t respond. His face was slack and his eyes partially closed, but Harte couldn’t process what had just happened. He looked up to find Esta with her hand clasped over her mouth. She was shaking her head, and Harte knew then, without her even saying a word. But he still didn’t want to accept the truth of it.

“No,” he told her, moving so that he could gently lay his brother out on the floor of the vault and try to shake him awake. He couldn’t be the cause of another innocent life being snuffed out. Not again. Sammie couldn’t die because of him.

Harte was still holding his brother, tapping gently at the face that now wore the years of an old man. Those years didn’t seem to matter, though. All Harte could see was the boy beneath, the child he’d once given up everything to rescue and who’d then found Esta and rescued him in turn.

It can’t end like this.

Their attackers were still outside, though. Dimly, Harte realized someone was already working the heavy tumbler of the vault door, and soon enough, the door would open once again and they would be trapped.

“He’s gone, Harte,” Esta said softly. Her voice trembled, even as the hand on his shoulder was firm as she tried to pull him away.